


What Tomorrow Brings

by BananaStickers



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Background Relationships, Getting Together, Historical Inaccuracy, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Slow Burn, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-05-13 14:01:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19252639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: The war won’t last forever, and Justin’s time as a replacement player for the Pittsburgh Hornets has an expiration date.  But he’ll enjoy it while he can, including taking advantage of The Transportation Club, Pittsburgh’s secret queer bar.  He just wants friendship, beer, and maybe a blowjob or two.  He’s not looking for love.Which means, of course, he finds it.[inspired by the 2019 Penguins charity gala, which was 1940s themed]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Goodbye Olli, we'll miss you as a Penguin :( 
> 
> This fic was inspired by the charity gala this year, where they all wore Pittsburgh Hornets jerseys. [Here](https://i.imgur.com/JRVshVL.jpg) are [a few](https://i.imgur.com/danL3Ee.jpg) pictures from the event to use as inspiration.
> 
> Every minor character here is a hockey player, either a past or current Penguin (with the exception of 'Taylor' in New Jersey; you might be able to figure out who that is). There is some off-screen minor character death in later chapters as men go to war.
> 
> This is not 100% accurate in regards to historical data. I did try to make it somewhat accurate, and researched quite a bit. However, some details are ignored, changed, or exaggerated, either deliberately or just because I didn't think to research differently.

1942 has not been a good year for Justin Schultz.

Granted, the year’s not over yet; it’s only September. Still, nothing’s really been good for about two years now. It was two years ago that Justin can still remember flying through the air as one of those bastard Black Hawks clipped him, can vividly recall the intense pain as he landed on his knee. He can still see the look in the doctor’s eyes when he told Justin it was shattered. His knee wasn’t the only thing shattered that day; his NHL dreams were gone. Twenty-nine games with the Detroit Red Wings, and his career was over.

He’s lucky, he supposes. They were able to repair his knee pretty well, and most days he has no pain. Hell, he can even skate pretty decent, all things considered. But the speed required to play in the NHL, that’s gone, never to return. He just can’t get the push off or the power anymore, and god knows he’s tried.

Turns out, jobs that aren’t pro hockey kind of suck. He works as a day laborer, doing miscellaneous jobs, and applies every month to the Ford assembly line. But every man in Detroit is applying there in hopes they’ll be assigned to the war effort, making tanks and planes, and therefore become indispensable at home and ineligible for selective service.

Justin knows he’s safe from the draft, at least. His knee made sure of that.

Otherwise, the work is awful and he’s lonely. Justin is well aware that last bit is his own doing. He could keep in contact with old Wings teammates, but it’s just too painful. He could try harder to be pals at work, but he doesn’t. The effort to make friends seems monumental sometimes, and too much of his energy is still devoted to being bitter about his lost career.

There’s also the small matter of his homosexuality, although Justin doesn’t really like that word, prefers either _temperamental_ or perhaps _queer._ All of his queer friends have fled Detroit, moving to Chicago or New York, with their thriving nightlifes and homo communities. His friend Taylor sent a photo the other week of him in drag - _in drag!_ \- at what he called a ‘pansy parlor’, and Justin’s stared at the picture for far longer than he’s liked to admit. Taylor is dolled up in sequins and shimmers even through the black-and-white photo. He’s shaved his moustache, but his chin still shows stubble; he’s smoking from one of those long cigarette holders the broads favor, with a drink in his other hand and a smile on his face. Behind him are men of every size and shape, looking relaxed and happy.

_Come to New York_ , Taylor writes. _Cheap housing here in Jersey, amazing nightlife in NYC. You’d love it._

And - he should. Justin should go. There’s nothing holding him in Detroit, except…

What if the Red Wings suddenly need him back, and he’s gone?

_Sometimes you have to give up that dream,_ Taylor pens, and he’s right until he’s not, because in October 1942 Justin gets a message from the Red Wings. There have been too many men selected for the draft, they tell him, and they need bodies. But not for the Red Wings. It’s their minor league affiliate in Pittsburgh, the Hornets, and they can’t promise the hockey’s gonna be good and they can’t promise anything more than the shit wage Justin’s making now as a day laborer but would he perhaps be interested in playing?

Justin’s on the next train to Pittsburgh.

~~~~~

If Justin’s knee weren’t fucked, the skill level in the IHL - the league the Pittsburgh Hornets play in - would be laughable. As a minor league affiliate, it’s always been slower than the NHL, but with all the men drafted for the war it’s even worse. The Wings are playing with IHL talent, which means the Hornets are playing pretty much whoever they can find. Justin immediately becomes their #1 defenseman, paired with a guy who hasn’t touched a stick in four years and was just pulled off a ranch to come back to the rink. But at least it’s _hockey,_ with all its camaraderie and competition.

It’s not until New Year’s Eve that Justin feels any pang of loneliness. They’re gathered at the team captain’s house, a fourth line scrub suddenly elevated to minor-league greatness. “No dame, Schultzy?” he asks, when Justin shows up to the party. “A guy like you can’t get a sweetheart?”

“A guy like _me?”_ Justin asks, splitting into a grin and waving at his gap-tooth smile, and his captain laughs and waves him inside. He’s happy to use the _unattractive_ excuse, instead of the real reason, that he doesn’t find women particularly special.

But surrounded by happy couples, kissing at the stroke of midnight, Justin thinks he could certainly stand for a little companionship. The queer scene in Pittsburgh hasn’t given up its secrets easily, though; Justin’s heard not even a whisper or a rumor about it. It’s like Pittsburghers think it doesn’t exist. Justin knows better.

He writes to Taylor, because Taylor seems to know everyone and everything. Sure enough, Taylor gets him a membership to ‘The Transportation Club’, a private club off downtown in a converted house. It’s the kind of place you need someone to vouch for you, a place with a healthy sense of paranoia. Although, is it really paranoia if it’s warranted?

Justin likes the place immediately. On the first floor, with its windows and its view of downtown and the glow of the steel mill across the river, there is a strict behavioral code. Men drink, laugh, talk, but there is nothing untowards, nothing scandalous that anyone glancing in the windows could pick up.

Downstairs, in the basement, is a whole different story. There’s a dance floor, where men swing and waltz and slow dance and jitterbug with each other.

There’s also a back bathroom, where men swing in a very different variety.

He gets a blowjob in that bathroom his first night there, his trousers puddled around his ankles, caressing the man’s head as he sucks. It’s been damn near a whole year since he’s had a mouth on his dick - last time Taylor visited Detroit - and it’s embarrassing, but he comes quickly, fucking the man’s mouth. The guy splutters a little, but he’s a good sport, lets Justin come in his mouth and then discreetly spits it away in the toilet.

“Sorry,” Justin gasps, trying to catch his breath again. “And thanks, uh - …” Shit, what is this guy’s name? Brian?

The man folds back off the floor, tall and lanky and smiling, flushed a deep red. “Sure,” he grins. “Um, did you wanna, er...would you mind…?”

Justin returns the favor, sucking off Brian-or-whatever-his-name-is. He doesn’t really love giving blowjobs but it’s only polite to reciprocate. Even though he mimics the man and spits in the toilet, the bitter taste is still there, so they part amicably once they both get off and Justin heads upstairs for a drink to wash it all away.

It’s the first time he sees him.

_Him_ is a blonde, fair-skinned young man with an Ascot cap pulled low to hide his eyes. Like everyone else, he’s wearing a suit, the suspenders peeking out when he shifts, and Justin can tell there’s some heft there despite his initial skinny appearance. He’s sitting at the bar and he’s reading a book and it’s all just bizarre. Why is a guy as hot as that seemingly ignoring everyone around him? Why would you risk coming to a homo establishment like this - because, private club or not, there’s _always_ a risk in being in a place like this - just to read a book?

Is he a cop? He doesn’t look like a cop, despite those muscles that Justin’s pretty sure are hiding under that suit. He did just get off, but there’s a little twitch of arousal at the idea of maybe going home with a guy that looks like _this man_ does, peel off his suit and see the muscles for his own eyes.

What the hell, he decides. What does he have to lose?

“Evening,” Justin says, sliding onto the stool next to the reading man, their knees knocking as he sits. There’s surprise in the man’s face when he looks up, as if he’s shocked to be spoken to. Justin gets a better view of his face now: big blue-gray eyes (currently wide and staring at Justin), pale skin, round baby face that makes it hard to guess his actual age, locks of blonde hair peeking out from the Ascot. He’s cute, Justin decides.

“Um,” the man says dumbly.

“Sorry, am I interrupting?”

The man looks down at his book, and then back up at Justin, still with the surprised look on his face. “Er…”

“You speak English, right?”

Now the man’s expression morphs from surprise to indignation, drawing himself up to sitting tall. “I speak English very well, thank you,” he says, and Justin pegs him immediately for an immigrant, which certainly explains the outburst over his English skills. There’s a slight accent there, a little lilt to his words. Justin smiles and holds up his hands, placatingly.

“I think you speak better English than me,” he says, and the man visibly relaxes. “My name’s Justin.” He sticks out his hand for a shake.

The man frowns, staring at Justin’s hand. “What do you want?”

“Well, I’ll start off with your name?”

A corner of his mouth ticks up, like he’s unsure whether he wants to give it, but gently places his hand in Justin’s and gives a firm shake. “Olli,” he says.

Justin lets his hand linger just a little longer than he ever would in politer company, letting his fingertips slide along Olli’s palm, watching him startle at the touch and cradle his hand like it’s been burned. “What brings you here tonight, Olli? Olli...is that Swedish?”

_“Finnish,”_ Olli scoffs, shaking his head, like being called Swedish is the highest of insults. “I’m here for - I, uh - I just like the conversation, is all.”

“Conversation.” Justin leans forward, gently tapping the book. “Not a whole lot of conversation going on here, I’d say. Maybe you’d be more interested in having a _conversation_ downstairs?”

Olli flushes red in an instant, and Justin decides he’s _definitely_ cute, wonders how badly he’d flush while getting his cock sucked. “I don’t - ...I’ve not been downstairs. It doesn’t really seem like my scene. I told you, I enjoy the conversation.”

“So let’s _converse_ , then.”

Olli still looks suspicious, but closes up his book and sets it aside. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Well…” Justin smirks. “How do you feel about hockey?”

“Hockey? Well, uh...it’s big in Finland. I played when I was younger. Not since coming to America, though. Why?”

Justin lights up. Olli’s cute, and Olli _plays hockey,_ and he thinks he might be in love. Strong lust, perhaps. “You should come try out for my team. I play for the Hornets, and the draft has taken a lot of our talent. Always looking for good players, you know.”

Olli snorts softly. “I wasn’t _that_ good.”

“Is that the truth, or are you just being modest?”

There’s a look on his face that tells Justin it _might_ be the latter, and Olli looks down to the floor. “My mama would kill me if I threw away a good career for a game.”

“And what career is that?”

“Mmm.” Olli bites his lip and gives Justin a once-over that sends a shiver into his gut. He’s pretty sure Olli’s just trying to decide whether he’s trustworthy, whether he might be a cop or not, but that _look_ he gave Justin… “Accountant,” he finally says.

Justin snorts, flapping his hand. “Good career? That sounds _boring.”_

“I’m sitting here at the bar reading a book. What makes you think I’m not boring?”

“Gut feeling.”

Olli finally cracks a smile and even a little chuckle at that, and hell, he’s even _cuter_ with a grin. Justin leans forward and returns the once-over, but he’s not trying to figure out whether Olli’s a cop, he’s trying to figure out what part of Olli’s body he wants to put his mouth on first.

“I assure you, I am. Er...” His smile slides off at Justin’s frankly obvious look of interest, into something a little alarmed. Like he’s new at this homo stuff, and is still trying to process it all. Well, Justin knows what might help relax him.

“Olli, can I buy you a drink? What would you like?”

“Um - whatever,” he says.

“Wait right here!” Justin taps the bar and gives Olli a wink, sliding off the stool and heading down the bar to order. The bartender is tall and loud, quite obviously fresh off the boat from the Soviet Union, and Justin has a little trouble understanding him. Finally, he gets his order handed to him: two whiskeys, neat. It’s a generous pour, and Justin’s glad for it. He’s not above getting the new queer boy drunk and making out with him downstairs.

But when he turns around, Olli is gone, no sign of him or his book or anything. Justin takes a lap around the joint, both upstairs and downstairs to see if he’s escaped anywhere, but no, he’s truly gone. Justin ends up finding Brian (at least he thinks that’s his name) at the bar, offers him the extra whiskey, and the guy lights up and gushes his thanks. There’s a bartender standing nearby chatting with Brian, maybe the most beautiful man Justin’s ever seen, and he gives Justin a look that could positively kill, so he decides to get the hell out of there and go back downstairs.

He spends the rest of the night dancing with strangers, but he keeps thinking about Olli. Has he just admitted he’s queer and Justin scared him off? Or maybe he’s playing hard to get. Well, Justin can work with either of those...as long as Olli comes back.

God, he hopes so.

~~~~~

Justin comes around The Transportation Club a couple nights a week from then on (as much as he can with work), but he doesn’t see Olli, even though he varies the days and times that he comes just in case. He gets to know a bunch of the other guys, though, and finally his days are filled with friendship and sometimes a little bit more than that in the bathroom downstairs. There’s Jamie, the tallest man he’s ever seen in his life; Trevor, one of the few black men in the club (“Black _and_ queer? Guess I pissed off God real good,” he likes to joke); Juuso, another Finn who unfortunately does not know Olli. The guy he sucked off that first night _is_ named Brian, and that beautiful bartender is Kris. Kris takes to calling Justin as “Jeff” just to be an ass, because he’s a priss that can’t admit he’s in love with Brian and is convinced that Justin’s trying to make a move on him (which, to be honest, Justin would consider in other circumstances). The nickname spreads around the club and soon most of the guys just call him Jeff anyway, although from everyone else but Kris, it’s affectionate.

Finally, nearly two months later, Justin spots an Ascot cap and a shock of blonde hair and his heart skips a beat. He’s ready to be disappointed again - Juuso likes to wear Ascots and he’s blonde too, something about being Finnish, he supposes - but no, it’s _Olli._

Olli’s not staring at a book this time, but he is sitting at the bar with a glass of beer, glancing around, the discomfort rolling off him in waves. Everyone’s mostly leaving him alone, and Justin considers his approach. He figures he should play it cool and low-key not to spook the guy, but then he gets close and blurts out, “Olli!” in a joyous sort of tone and that’s all ruined. Olli physically flinches at his name, but he turns around to look at Justin, eyes just as wide as the first time. “Do you remember me? Justin. Justin Schultz.”

“You’re hard to forget,” Olli says, dryly. “Yes, I’m back. Against my better judgment.”

“Why?”

Olli’s mouth opens and closes for a moment, picking his words carefully. “Every day I expected it,” he says, softly. “For someone to come through my door and arrest me for...for this. For what I am.”

“For what _we_ are,” Justin says, stepping up and giving Olli a friendly and gentle nudge with his shoulder. “I’m in that boat, too.”

“I thought you might be a, uh…”

“A cop?” Justin throws back his head and whoops, and when he catches Olli’s eye again, Olli finally has a smile - albeit small - on his face. “I was wondering the same thing, you know!”

“Not me, I promise. It’s just a scary thing, you know? Everything could be taken away. Like that.” Olli snaps his fingers.

“Well, the way I see it, if I’m alive, I wanna _live_. And pretending to like dames ain’t exactly what I call livin’. So yeah, it’s scary, but we do what we can to minimize risk and just...trust the universe, I guess.”

A thick Soviet accent interrupts them. “Jeff,” the bartender says, with his goofy grin and goofier face, “You want usual? Whiskey? You want two, for friend?”

“Sure,” Justin says, and now Olli is frowning, eyes narrowed.

“I thought your name was _Justin.”_

“Oh, it is. But, uh.” Justin glances down the bar, catches sight of Kris, who is - as usual - ignoring customers to talk with Brian. “See that bartender down there? Well…”

Justin tells Olli the story, then transitions into pointing out the regular patrons, introducing them and giving a brief background on each. By the time he’s done, the two whiskeys are sitting in front of him, and he nudges one over to Olli, who hesitates, but accepts. “This is a good place, with good men,” he says softly. “I hope you’ll consider coming around more often.”

“Maybe. Thanks for the whiskey, Jeff.”

That name doesn’t sound quite right coming from Olli. “Actually, uh, I know pretty much everybody here calls me Jeff. But you...maybe you could just call me Justin?” The idea that everyone else might use a nickname, but Olli would use his _real_ name sort of gives Justin a thrill. Like it’s something secret, between them.

“Okay.” Olli grins. “Justin, then.”

“Cheers,” Justin says, holding up his whiskey glass, and they toast and drink.

It’s easy, talking to Olli. Justin can talk anyone’s ear off if he likes ‘em, but now that Olli seems a little more relaxed - not quite as terrified that he’s revealing himself to a cop - the conversation flows. Justin ends up telling him about his knee, his career, his hopes and dreams. Olli tells him about Finland, his opinion on the war, his favorite books.

They go through two more whiskeys in the meantime, and Justin only notices they’re empty when his throat goes dry from talking so much. “You want another?” he asks, then tries flagging down Kris as he walks past. “You actually working right now or what, Kris?”

Kris glares at him, tilting his chin up. “Busy,” he growls, not stopping his pace, and Olli laughs at his retreating figure.

“He really does _not_ like you. Maybe you should stop hitting on Brian, eh?” he teases. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have any more anyway.”

“I’m not hitting on Brian. Brian’s not the one I want.” Justin leans forward; it’s forbidden up in the bar to hold Olli’s hand, or kiss him, or show any interest that normal men wouldn’t show. But he hopes the look in his eyes is unmistakable, and from the way Olli flushes, he thinks that it is. “How about I show you downstairs? We don’t have to do anything. Maybe just a dance?”

Olli’s eyes flick to the door downstairs, the sound of music faint over the upstairs conversation. “I’ve not been down there yet.”

“If you don’t like it, we leave right away. I promise to be a gentleman. What do you say?”

“Well…” Olli visibly fidgets for a moment, glancing between Justin and the door a few times, then nods. “Okay. Let’s see it.”

Justin grins and nods to follow him. The sound of music is louder as they descend the steps: there’s a radio, and a record player for when the radio is doing variety shows and news segments. It’s some slow song playing right now, a love tune that’s exploded in popularity, and Justin’s sort of sick of hearing it except now he’s got Olli by his side, so it’s the best thing ever.

Olli, for his part, scans the dance floor with the same gawky wide eyes that Justin has seen a couple times before. “Not what you expected?” Justin asks, and Olli shakes his head. “Well, do you want to dance? I’ll even take the lady’s position.”

“I’m not much of a dancer,” Olli says, but he allows Justin to bring him to the little dance floor. He looks thoroughly out of place as they clasp hands - Olli’s is warm, and fits perfectly in his - and Justin gets a hand on his shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, Olli fits his hand on Justin’s hip, taking the lead.

“This is nice,” Justin says as they start to move, because it _is_ , surrounded by men just like them, in a safe place where they can actually be themselves, and with a lovely boy swaying to a love song in his arms. He could get used to this.

“Yeah, it’s - …” Olli falters, staring around, like he can’t believe he’s here and doing what he’s doing. “Nice. Yeah.”

Olli gets more comfortable as the song goes on, relaxing in the dance, starting to return Justin’s smile. When the song finishes, Justin’s lost in Olli’s beautiful eyes, and Olli is watching him right back with a small pleased grin.

Justin wonders if he should kiss him. Or ask, maybe ask - 

The song transitions into a faster paced one, something by Jimmy Dorsey, and suddenly he’s bumped hard, enough to throw him against Olli’s chest. It’s Jamie, and he looks chagrined; sometimes he doesn’t know what to do with his big frame. He mouths an apology, but Justin’s okay with it, really, because it means he’s pressed against Olli and that’s pretty okay.

“Sorry,” Olli says, like it’s his fault.

“No, no, it’s - it’s fine, more than fine.” Justin pulls himself back upright, then grins. “Maybe I should swing you around so we bump into Jamie.”

Olli surprises him with a smile and a nod. “Okay,” he says, and so they do. They never end up bumping into Jamie, who follows a man - hilariously shorter, Justin thinks his name’s Conor - into the bathroom, their hands all over each other.

But Justin enjoys just dancing with Olli. They swing and groove and when another slow song comes on, it’s an easy transition back into Olli’s arms. Justin presses a palm to Olli’s face, tentatively, caressing his smooth chin, dragging his thumb over Olli’s lips. “You’re so handsome, you know,” Justin says, and Olli blushes.

“No, I - no, don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true. All I want to do is kiss you right now.”

Olli visibly swallows, licks his lips. “One kiss,” he says after a long moment. “And then I need to go.”

“One kiss,” Justin confirms, and if this is all he gets for the moment, he’s going to make it worthwhile. He slides his hand around the back of Olli’s neck - his skin is so soft, and _warm_ \- and slowly, slowly leans in.

Justin closes most of the gap, because Olli’s stock-still, eyes wide and bright with what looks to be nervous energy, staring at Justin’s mouth as it approaches. The kiss is just a gentle pressure at first, barely-there and dry, but Olli suddenly relaxes and surges a little forward to deepen it, and Justin has to resist the urge to ravish him. Their tongues barely touch, just enough for a little taste, and then it’s over, Olli pulling back with a dazed look.

“That was nice,” Justin prompts, because Olli still looks a bit shocked.

“Yes,” Olli agrees slowly. “It was, it...it really was, but I...I need to go now.”

“When will you be back? Soon?”

Olli’s expression crumbles a little, scrunching up his face. “I’m sorry, Justin. I don’t know. I’m sorry,” he says, and then he’s gone, deftly maneuvering around the dance floor. He’s out of sight in an instant, obscured by the throngs of dancing men packed tightly together.

He’s not left staring at the empty space that Olli once occupied for too long as the beat picks up quickly, transitioning into an uptempo tune. Justin doesn’t feel much like dancing anymore, but he’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He turns around and looks up, and up, and up; it’s Jamie, with a sympathetic smile on his face.

“You like him,” Jamie says, not a question but a statement.

“I like a lot of guys, Jamie.”

The deflection doesn’t work. “I mean you got a crush on him. Don’t you? But he’s not carrying your torch in return?”

“Why would you say that?”

“He stormed out, and you look like you’ve just been drafted.”

Justin frowns. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but either he failed spectacularly, or Jamie is a lot more observant than he thought. “Olli just doesn’t know what he wants,” he says. “Maybe he’ll come around, and maybe he won’t. But it’s not like I’m going to be sitting here pining away for him.” He’s not entirely sure how much truth is in that statement - he feels an awful lot like pining right about now - but he says it confidently enough to Jamie, and that’s what matters.

Jamie pats his shoulder, reassuringly. “Do you want me to help cheer you up?”

The blowjob _does_ help cheer him up, although it doesn’t take his mind off Olli. Justin can’t help but think about him the whole time, what his fingers would look like in Olli’s hair, how his mouth would stretch around Justin’s dick, his round babyfaced cheek with a cock pressed obscenely inside of it. “That was fast,” Jamie says with a smile after Justin finishes. “How do you feel now? Good, right?”

“Yes,” he says, not entirely sure he’s telling the truth.


	2. Chapter 2

Jamie gets his draft notice that next week.

He seems to take the conscription with good grace and dry humor. “Of course they drafted me to the Army,” he tells Justin. “Can you imagine me in the Navy? You think I’d fit in a submarine?”

They both laugh, and Justin buys him another round. Jamie’s well on his way to hammered, but if anyone deserves to get drunk tonight, it’s him. “Well you better watch that big noggin of yours in those trenches,” Justin teases.

“Right? They better have built ‘em deep, or else I’ll get my head shot right off.”

“That’s fucking morbid,” one of the guys sitting nearby says, overhearing. Matt is his name, although everyone calls him Muzz - Justin has no idea why - and he’s almost as tall as Jamie, thin as a rail and lanky. Justin likes him a lot. “But I’m betting that you’ll probably be fine anyway. I have a couple of buddies drafted and they haven’t even left the United States, and it’s been damn near a year. Still in training, or waiting to deploy. Just watch, the end of the war will come and you’ll be twiddling your thumbs in some barracks somewhere here in the States.”

“Oh, I can twiddle my thumbs,” Jamie says. “I’m damn good at that!”

“Hey.” Justin elbows Jamie in the side, puts on a smile. “What do you say, one last time for old time’s sake?”

“I dunno, where’s your boy?”

“My boy?” Justin scrunches up his nose. “You mean Olli? He ain’t been back since last week. Also, he’s not _my boy.”_

“Well maybe by the time I get back from the war - “

“Hey, we can keep talking about Olli, or I can use my mouth to do something else.”

Jamie grins, downing the rest of his drunk with a dry cough. “Lead the way, friend.”

~~~~~

They’re having another goodbye party the next month when Olli finally returns. Trevor has decided to enlist, which Justin thinks is absolutely idiotic, but hey it’s not his funeral.

“You’re back!” he yelps happily when Olli walks through the door, and he must be drunk because Olli recoils a little bit as Justin walks - well, maybe staggers - towards him.

“You don’t smell great,” Olli says, crinkling his nose as Justin gets closer.

God, he’s even cute when he looks disgusted.

“Uh, thanks,” Olli says, and _fuck_ did Justin say that out loud?

“I’m drunk for a _reason,”_ Justin insists, hooking his thumb towards Trevor. “Trev’s an idiot and going to war. _Enlisted_ , not drafted. Like, why?”

Trevor must have heard his name, because he’s at Justin’s side in a moment, smiling easily. “Hi Olli, welcome back. And you, Jeff, I already _told_ you. I can’t read about Pearl Harbor one more day in the papers and feel good about myself by not doing anything.”

“Trevor, look around. You think this country gives a shit about men like we are? And you’re black on top of that. You don’t owe this country nothing.”

Trevor’s quiet for a long moment, contemplative. “The way I see it,” he says slowly, “The government might still be backwards for men like me. But it’s not those fat cats in the government that are dying. It’s men like you and me - and that includes black men and queers - they’re the ones dying in the trenches. They’re the ones I’m fighting alongside, and fighting for.”

Justin throws up his hands, his drunk brain recoiling at the notion. “You could _die.”_

“Every man dies, Jeff,” Trevor says. “It’s what we do when we’re alive that matters.”

Justin can see the respect in Olli’s eyes as Trevor gives a last polite salutation and moves off towards another group of well-wishers, and for a moment he wishes he could get that look from Olli, but - not at the expense of dying. “Nice words,” Justin huffs out. “But fucking crazy.”

Olli shrugs. “I respect a man with conviction. But I’m certainly not in any rush to go to war either.”

“He’s right in one way, though.”

Olli tilts his head, curious. “What’s that?”

“Trevor said...it’s what we do when we’re alive, that’s what matters. Right? And that’s why I come here.”

Groaning, Olli rolls his eyes and turns to go, but Justin reaches out, grabs his elbow. “Wait, don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m being too forward. It’s just that...I like seeing you. I enjoy spending time with you, but you’re never around. If you’re afraid to get caught - “

“Of course I’m afraid,” Olli snaps, but his expression softens, and he turns back. “It’s not just that. It’s _complicated,_ Justin. There are rules, responsibilities outside these walls. I can’t just come when I please.”

Justin doesn’t know what rules or responsibilities he could be talking about, but - then again, he’s a single hockey player, tied down to nothing or nobody but his work schedule. And he’s probably too drunk to get into a discussion about Olli’s _responsibilities,_ so instead he says, “Well there’s no rules or responsibilities when you’re here. Come dance with me, Olli. Please?”

Olli chews on his lip for a moment, and Justin tries to look as hopeful as he can. All he wants to do is touch Olli, sweep him into a hug, but even drunk he remembers the rules of stuffy normalcy up here on the first floor. Luckily, Olli acquiesces with a nod. “Buy me a drink first,” he says, and Justin lights up.

“Anything you want,” he says.

Justin gets two gin rickeys into Olli, watches him relax and open up as the liquor forces away his paranoia and fears. It strengthens his belief that Trevor is _wrong_ about going to war, because what they got here, the way Olli smiles and laughs and fits perfectly in Justin’s arms as they dance, it’s a little slice of heaven that this country and society would deny them. And any country that hates this ain’t worth fighting for, in Justin’s estimation.

Nevermind that there’s no country in this whole damn world that’ll have them. That just means that none of them are worth a plugged nickel.

By the end of the night, Justin’s mouth aches from talking and laughing so much, pressed close to be able to hear each other over the record player and the other patrons. But when Olli presses in for a kiss - on his _own_ accord, Justin notes with astonishment and pleasure - well, it doesn’t matter how much his mouth hurts. He meets Olli’s lips and it feels so right, with Olli pressed up against his chest, Irving Berlin crooning out a song about love, and nobody in the whole place batting an eye at their kiss. The way it should be.

“I do like you,” Olli gasps out, and maybe he’s going to say something else but Justin captures his mouth again, insistent. His tongue slides into Olli’s mouth and he tastes like gin and the cigarette they shared earlier in the night, ashy and bitter and perfect.

They kiss until the last sweet notes of the love song die away, and Justin pulls back a little, clears his throat, shifts a little on his feet. “There’s a, um, a washroom,” he says.

“I, uh, I don’t have to pee?”

“Um.” Justin clears his throat again, awkward, not sure what to say. “It’s not really for, um, doing that.”

“What’s it - “ Olli’s eyes go wide as his voice stutters to a stop. “Oh.”

“I mean only if you want to we don’t have to,” Justin rushes out, the sentence blurring into each other.

“I think I have to go,” Olli says instead, stepping back like he’s been burned, like Justin has turned into something dangerous and aflame.

“Wait - “

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he does look sorry, but that doesn’t stop him from fleeing towards the door.

“Wait! Olli, _wait!”_ It’s no use; Justin’s sobered up quite a bit, but he’s still far too drunk to skillfully dodge around other patrons and Olli is fast on his feet. Olli disappears in the crowd, and the last thing he sees is his brown Oxfords heading up the stairs towards the front door.

“Fuck,” he snarls. He goes home in short order, collapsing into bed, and wakes up staring at the ceiling in his shoebox of a room, trying not to think about Olli.

~~~~~

Justin thinks he’s probably never going to see Olli again, but to his shock he does, the very next week. He’s sidling up to the bar to get a drink - not even looking for Olli as he usually does - and there’s a small, thin, “hi,” from the seat next to him. Justin whips around and there he is, talking to Juuso, whose gaze flips between them both, back and forth and back and forth before smartly excusing himself and leaving them alone.

“Olli,” he breathes, and opens his mouth to apologize, _I’m sorry, I’m an idiot,_ a thousand different apologies but none seem appropriate. Still, there’s something in Olli’s expression that snaps his mouth shut.

“Hi,” Olli says again. “Tell me again about the Hornets. Maybe I’ll come see a game.”

If Olli wants to pretend like his weird freak-out-flee from last time never happened, Justin is more than on board with that. He slides into the seat next to Olli gratefully. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything?”

Justin almost laughs - _everything_ is a big broad stroke, with no indication of where to begin - and asks, “You got awhile?”

Olli smiles, and his dimples are out. “Sure,” he says.

And - well, okay. _Everything_ it is.

~~~~~

Olli comes a little more regularly now, once or twice a month, and Justin is a perfect gentleman. He lets Olli initiate the kisses, keeps his hands respectfully above waist level, and never, ever suggests going into the bathroom again. He convinces himself he doesn’t even _want_ to go to that bathroom. He’d much rather take Olli home, bring him back to his tiny little room and make Olli come over and over and over again in his bed. Maybe it’ll happen. Someday.

Until then, no matter what’s happening in the real world, no matter how the war effort is going or how the Hornets are playing, every night with Olli is a good one. They talk and laugh and dance and kiss and drink until they’re silly with each other, lost in easy affection and terrible jokes.

Olli promises to watch a Hornets game, and Justin doesn’t really expect to see him - there’s only three games left in the regular season when he makes the commitment - but there he is on the last game, Ascot cap and a familiar suit and tie. He’s sitting two rows up and he grins at Justin and waves, a little shyly.

“Glad you could make it,” he calls to Olli through the chicken wire around the boards, running a hand through his hair to try and make it look somewhat presentable. “I’ll play a good one for you today.”

“You damn well better,” one of the fans near Olli yells.

“You will,” Olli says, and Justin winks and skates away.

The game goes well. Scoring, with replacement goaltenders, is through the roof, and sure enough the Hornets are up 8-4 with just a few minutes remaining. Justin has played a solid game, and he’s got one shift left.

There’s a relatively new rule in the NHL and the minors that states the puck can be _passed_ \- not just skated - out of the defensive zone, and their coach is all about the innovation, insisting that the team utilize it as much as possible. But Justin gets on the ice, the puck on his stick, and he looks at his options. It’s their fourth line on a team already full of replacements, and none of these men can catch a pass worth a damn.

He hears his coach yelling to pass as he starts skating, up and out of the defensive zone, joining the rush up the ice. He stays near the top of the offensive zone, dekes around one of their men as he waits for someone to go to the net, tees up the perfect shot, and hammers it home. Right through the goalie’s legs. As he’s skating by with a big smile on his face, he thinks he can hear Olli teasing, “Show off!” Olli’s red-faced with the cold air, face contorted with how big his smile is, clapping and cheering.

“What the fuck was that, Schultz?” his coach demands when he gets back to the bench. “You had a perfect pass available.”

“I saw a lane,” Justin says with a shrug, and the coach goes tight-lipped.

“This isn’t kiddie play shit, Schultz,” he snaps. “We’re about to make the playoffs, and we won’t be playing these fuckin’ sad Sams. Do what I told you.”

“You got it,” Justin agrees amicably. Nothing’s going to bring down his mood today.

Olli shows up three days later at The Transportation Club, gushes about how amazing Justin was - no, _is,_ Justin’s amazing, his shot was a thing of beauty and he looked so handsome in his uniform and...

They don’t talk a lot that night, making out in a corner of the basement while Bing Crosby pours out of the record player. It’s a nice soundtrack to kiss to. “I really like you,” Justin says between kisses, and Olli goes red, redder than he already is with the alcohol and the heat of a packed downstairs basement.

“I like you too. Really like,” Olli murmurs against his mouth before they’re kissing again, and Justin thinks about inviting him back to his place, but he doesn’t, and Olli doesn’t extend an invite either. He ends up jerking off at home thinking of Olli’s mouth and the way his hands clutched at Justin’s lapel and his thick thighs, almost as strong as any pro hockey player’s.

~~~~~

The Hornets lose in the playoffs the same day that Brian gets his draft notice. It’s one of Olli’s nights at the club, so it can’t be the _worst_ day ever, but it’s not in Justin’s top ten for sure.

Brian’s quiet, contemplative in a way that Justin’s never seen before. “Are you alright?” Justin asks, with Olli beside him.

“Sure,” Brian says. “I guess maybe I’m almost glad for it.”

“Glad?” Olli blurts out from next to him.

“Okay, glad is probably too much.” Brian looks down at his drink, one of the many that have been bought for him that night. “I liked the idea of enlisting, you know? There’s some really terrible shit that’s happening over in Europe with the Nazis. And the Japs, I mean - you’ve seen the footage. But I just...couldn’t bring myself to do it. Enlist, I mean. Maybe I’m a coward, I don’t know. But now the decision has been made for me.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Justin tells him. “Muzz told me - “

“Yeah, Muzz gave me the same story. I probably won’t leave the States, according to him.” Brian laughs, taking a long drink. “I’ve never been the luckiest guy though. Who knows.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Brian smiles. “You’ll have to get in line, but sure. Actually, if you really want to do something for me…” He glances back over his shoulder at Kris, who has been an absolute mess since he heard the news. Kris is slumped against the wall, looking like he’s going to crumble except for the fact that he’s being held up by the owner (Justin can’t remember his name, some name of a city, Brisbane or something?) and that big Soviet Union bartender. “If you really want to do something for me, do this. If you love someone, and they don’t know, tell ‘em. Okay?”

Justin doesn’t look at Olli, but he’s suddenly hyper aware of his presence next to him, the fabric of his suit against Justin’s arm where they’re pressed together, his soft in-and-out breathing, the _smell_ of him. 

Does he love Olli? Is that what this is?

“Kris loves you,” Olli says softly, and Brian snorts, narrows his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. _“Now_ he tells me. Fat lot of good it does now.”

“When you come back - “

_“If_ I come back,” Brian interrupts. “Sure, maybe it’ll all work out. And maybe I’ll die in a trench somewhere. My point is, don’t wait, yeah?” He meets both their eyes in turn, like he _knows,_ and then smiles. “I should go. Hasty banana, boys.”

Olli frowns as they watch Brian’s retreating figure. “Hasty banana?”

Justin shrugs. “It’s like a play on - you know _hasta manana?_ It’s Spanish.”

“Oh,” Olli says. “That’s cute.”

They don’t talk at all about Brian’s request. Justin's not sure it's love, but it's something important that he and Olli could have, he'd wager. He wants to see Olli every day, wants to find all those spots that make him whimper. He wants to ask him if maybe they want to move in together, share the rent on a room, just one bed needed. But he doesn’t.

Maybe _he’s_ the coward.

~~~~~

Justin doesn’t really have any reason to stay in Pittsburgh for the summer. The Hornets are out, and he gets a handshake and a too-small check and a promise that they’ll bring him back if the war effort is still going on. He could go to NYC for awhile, see Taylor, get a job in the city until hockey starts back up. Taylor’s offered a place to stay, rent free, so he could save up some cash that way. Plus, the queer bars in New York City are legendary. It’s a good choice. But not one he makes.

Ultimately, he gets a job driving a truck in Pittsburgh for the summer, which is sort of ironic because he’s staying for The Transportation Club. And Olli, although he doesn’t need to know that. “Get it,” he tells Olli the next time he sees him, sharing a beer. “I drive a truck...transportation...The Transportation Club?”

“I get it,” Olli deadpans, evidently trying not to smile. “You’re not going back to Detroit for the summer? That’s where you were before, right?”

“Hell no,” Justin says. “I mean to the going back. Yes, I was in Detroit, but there’s nothing there for me now.”

“And there’s something here for you?”

Justin swallows, stares down at the beer. “I told you. The Club - “

“But there’s gotta be places like this in every big city. I’ve heard the rumors, Chicago, New York, you know. Nothing like this place. They’re bigger, better.”

_But they don’t have you,_ Justin wants to say. Instead, he pushes the rest of the beer over with a smile. “They ain’t my scene,” he says, and Olli raises his eyebrow, but seems placated and takes a drink.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” Olli says, after the beer’s been polished off and another beer’s ordered, and Justin can feel the stupid grin spread across his face, is helpless to stop it.

New York City be damned. He has all he needs right here.

~~~~~

It’s a hot, muggy summer, which makes the driving job even worse, but it’s still infinitely better than any job he had in Detroit. The pay is decent - better than what the Hornets pay, actually - and it’s a standard and predictable nine-to-five. He’s able to grab a beer at the Club every night, pay his rent, and even sock a little money away in a false bottom in his dresser drawer.

Olli’s still not there as much as he would like, maybe a few times a month, so Justin treasures their evenings together. They always go by too fast, talking and laughing over a beer, or dancing in the basement, and usually ending the night with at least one kiss. There’s a big plush chair in the corner of the basement that becomes their spot; it’s small enough that Olli has to perch on his lap, and that suits Justin just fine. That chair becomes their place to take a break from dancing, or to share a quick beer, or sometimes - more and more often - to kiss each other senseless. Justin usually ends those make out sessions hard as a rock, wanting to feel the warm wet heat of Olli’s mouth on places that aren’t just his lips, and he knows Olli can tell, sometimes he’s sitting right on _top_ of Justin’s dick on his lap, but...he never invites him back to that bathroom, and Justin doesn’t push. It’s enough, for now.

About halfway through the summer, Justin walks in to the Club one blistering hot Tuesday evening and the place is like a morgue, somber and quiet. He can’t even hear any music playing downstairs. “You hear news?” the big Soviet bartender - nobody can pronounce his name, so everyone’s taken to calling him Geno - asks.

Justin shakes his head as Geno fills his glass with whiskey.

“Muzz get letter. About Jamie. He not make it.”

Justin’s head is filled suddenly with the memories of Jamie’s smile, his awkward and endearing dancing, the way he grabbed Justin’s shoulders that last evening when Justin blew him, shockingly gentle for such a big man. “I thought - what? Not make it? You mean like he _died?_ I didn’t think he got shipped out.”

“Only just. I guess he only over in Europe a month. And then…”

Justin remembers vividly the joke made about Jamie being so tall, the trenches needed to be deep or he’d get his head shot off, and he feels suddenly very sick. “Jesus Christ.”

“Terrible,” Geno agrees, then ambles off to take care of the next customer. There is a lot of drinking going on, tonight.

Justin glances around the Club at the somber faces and soft conversation. He spots Muzz in the corner, and he’s a wreck - to put it kindly - staring straight ahead, face streaked red with tears. He can hear Muzz now, insisting to Jamie that he’ll spend the war here in the States, out of harm’s way, and he’s betting that’s all Muzz can think of now too. Even those men that didn’t know Jamie well seem distraught, likely thinking of their own loved ones fighting the war. Justin thinks about Trevor and Brian; he’s never been much of a godly man, but he sends a prayer up skyward for their safe return.

By the time Olli returns to the Club, nearly two weeks later, it’s almost back to normal. Muzz is still prone to long stretches of blank staring while he nurses a drink, and the dancing downstairs hasn’t been quite so boisterous. But war brings death, and war is their new normal, so most everyone eventually gets over it. “We got bad news the other day,” Justin tells him, after they’ve both grabbed a beer and are sitting in the corner near the upstairs bar. “Jamie - do you remember Jamie? Tallest man you’ve ever seen? Got drafted maybe eight, nine months back? Well, he, uh, he’s not coming back. Lost his life on the front.”

Olli’s eyes go wide, and his hand grips hard on the bottle, fingers going white with the pressure. “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit.” Justin picks a little at his beer bottle; they’ve never talked about this, but Finland has recently switched sides, from Allies to Axis, and...well, he’s just gotta be sure. “You ever think about going back? To fight for Finland, and, uh…”

“No,” Olli spits out, and Justin can see the shock and maybe a little hurt in his eyes. “I’d never. If you think I’m some sort of Nazi sympathizer…”

Justin shakes his head quickly, and Olli sighs, softens a little.

“Look, this is what I love about this country. Me and Geno,” Olli gestures to the man behind the bar, “Our mother countries are at war, right? But we can still be friends. Because we’re Americans now. We’re all in this together. Right?”

“Right.” They’re both quiet for a long moment before Justin speaks again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply or accuse you of, uh, you know.”

“It’s okay. It’s a fair question.” Olli smiles thinly. “I never ever thought it would happen, but I’ve been telling people I’m from Sweden. Otherwise, people give me that same look, wondering if I’m the enemy.”

“You should just carry pie around with you,” Justin jokes, and at Olli’s quizzical look he says, “You know. ‘American as apple pie’? Or you could just keep a baseball bat, although that would probably look weird.”

“And me carrying around a pie wouldn’t be weird?” Olli asks, and Justin laughs. “Actually, I’ve never been to a baseball game, if you believe it.”

“Really? We should - “ Justin cuts himself off, because all this time he’s been careful, doesn’t want to spook Olli off. But the idea of going to a game, or really _anywhere_ with Olli that isn’t this tiny little secret house, is an exciting prospect.

To his surprise, Olli leans forward. “You want to take me to a baseball game?”

Justin leans forward as well, as close as he can get while still pretending he’s in polite company. “Oh yes. If you want.”

“And, ah...is this a _date?”_

Justin’s breath catches in his throat. “If you want,” he says again, softly, almost pleadingly. _Yes, yes please._

“Okay,” Olli says, and holds up his hand at Justin’s sudden beaming smile. “But we meet at the park, and that’s it, no going home with each other afterwards. You can buy me a beer and act like a gentleman, hmm?”

“I’m always a gentleman,” Justin insists, and then - in sharp contrast to that statement - they end up in the basement in their usual chair, hands all over each other, kissing deeply. It feels a little different today for some reason, with Justin’s sense of mortality at the forefront of his mind due to Jamie’s death. He wants more than anything to take Olli home, but Olli has at least agreed to a _date,_ a real date outside of these four walls, so it’s progress.

Maybe Olli is confronting his own mortality, as well. But Justin never asks, his mouth too busy with something else all night.

~~~~~

Justin dresses in his best suit, a smart bow tie and a Panama hat for the Pirates game. Nobody’s gonna know it’s a date besides him and Olli, but by God he wants to make a good impression, and he thinks he looks pretty damn good.

Olli seems to agree, eyebrows high when he catches sight of Justin. “Wow, you look great,” he says, then glances down at his old suit, something Justin’s seen plenty of times at the Club. “Now I feel underdressed.”

“Naw, you always look great,” Justin tells him softly, pulling two tickets out of his pocket. “Here they are. One for you, one for me. Ready to go watch the great American game?”

“Looking forward to it,” Olli says with a dimpled smile, and more than anything Justin wishes he could stick his arm out and have Olli take it, walk inside clutched together like all the men and their dames. They have to settle for just being next to each other, but with the crowd they’re close enough that they keep bumping each other, Olli a solid weight against his hip.

Inside, they buy beer and hot dogs and a box of Cracker Jacks and a few cigarettes before finding their seats. It’s a double header against the Boston Braves, and Justin’s not a huge expert at baseball but he enjoys explaining the rules to Olli as they eat and watch.

“I think I like hockey better,” Olli says in the middle of the seventh, fanning himself with his cap with one hand, cigarette burning in the other. “I certainly don’t sweat as much, anyway.”

“Speak for yourself,” Justin laughs. “I sweat way more at a hockey game.”

“Because you’re _playing_ it.”

“Well, sure.”

He’s not wrong, though; it is a hot, muggy summer day, but Justin keeps his suit coat on even as most men take theirs off. It’s the price he pays to make sure he looks handsome for Olli, and with the way he keeps sneaking glances over at Justin during lulls in the play, he’s pretty sure it might be working.

They leave just a little bit early, because the Pirates are up 7-0 on the Braves in the second game, and night is starting to fall. Most of the crowd is still inside, so Justin says, “You know, I live about ten minutes from here.” At Olli’s frown, he holds up his hands. “I remember what you said, about not coming back home with me. I’m just...letting you know. In case there ever _is_ a day when…”

Olli sighs, stops them in front of the gate. “I’d love to go home with you,” he says, quietly. “But I can’t. It’s complicated. I have responsibilities.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not ready to talk about them yet,” Olli says, casting his eyes downward. “Listen, if you’re...if you’re _waiting_ for me, I’d advise you not to do so. I can’t tell you when, if ever, I’ll be ready for...more than this. More than what we’ve done.”

“You’re worth waiting for,” Justin insists, and he wants to say more but then people are streaming towards them, the game finishing up. Olli smiles sadly and takes a step back.

“I had a great time today,” he says. “I’ll see you soon, Justin.”

He gives a little half-wave and disappears in the crowd, and Justin stands there for a long while, letting the people wash around him like a tidal wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the draft height limit for World War II was 6'6, so Jamie Oleksiak actually would have been disqualified at 6'7. But hey, I told you this would be historically inaccurate!


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the summer goes by fast, and he gets a letter from the Hornets indicating that they want him to come to camp in a month. With the war effort still ongoing, Justin’s services are still needed. He decides to keep his truck driving job and pick up hours as he can, because the wage the Hornets pay is barely enough to live on.

There’s a new kid that’s started coming around to the Club, Jake, and he seems starry-eyed that Justin is an “honest-to-God professional athlete” in his words. Justin doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he wouldn’t be shit if it weren’t for the war, but when Jake’s kind words turn into more - a hand sliding up Justin’s side as they dance together, on an evening that Olli’s not in the Club - he can’t take advantage, for some reason he can’t quite put into words. He turns down Jake as gently as he can (“you’re a little too young for me,” he tells Jake, never mind that Justin’s only four years older) and realizes it’s been months since he’s been with anyone. God, maybe he _is_ waiting for Olli.

He should probably be frustrated at that, having only gotten off with his hand all summer long, but he’s not. _You’re worth waiting for_ , he’d told Olli, and it wasn’t a lie. He does wonder how much longer he’s willing to wait - months? _Years?_ What happens when the war effort is over and he loses his job with the Hornets? But those are all what-ifs that are a problem for his future self, so he puts it out of his mind and watches with amusement as Jake latches his admiration onto the bar owner, who accepts it with good grace and friendship.

Well, Justin sees them leaving the bar together one evening, so maybe a little more than just _friendship._

Olli manages to catch the Hornets’ home opener that year, and they lose and that sucks, but it can’t ruin Justin’s good mood, not when he’s able to glance across the rink and see Olli’s shock of blonde hair a few rows above the opposing goalie. They go out to a bar afterwards and Olli gushes about his performance like Jake used to do, except with Olli it makes his insides turn squishy and his brain go dumb, eating up Olli’s praise with a stupid smile on his face.

In their conversation that evening, Justin learns that Olli is actually _younger_ than Jake, by about two months. He also learns, to his horror, that Olli’s birthday was barely a month prior. “You didn’t tell me!” Justin says, dismayed. “I would have gotten you a gift!”

“That’s precisely why I didn’t tell you!”

“When’s the next time you’ll be at the Club?”

Olli narrows his eyes. “I don’t want a gift.”

“Tough shit. It’ll be small, I promise, but you need to tell me when you’ll be in next. If you don’t, I’ll buy something _huge,_ mark my words.”

Olli sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hopefully this Saturday. Really, though, I don’t need a gift.”

“Nobody _needs_ a gift,” Justin tells him cheerfully. “But I _want_ to give you one.”

“Promise me it will be small. And cheap.”

“Promise,” Justin says, and it’s the truth. He doesn’t have a lot of extra cash to spend anyway, but he knows just what to get Olli.

~~~~~

There’s a lot of things Justin wants to get Olli: some sort of nice timepiece, with a beautiful leather band, or maybe a ring, something to show his devotion and care. Instead, he gets Olli a brand new Ascot cap - his favorite - and he brings a pie in, too. Apple, of course. “American as apple pie,” he tells Olli, who laughs and sets the new cap on his head.

“This is too much,” he says, but he’s beaming with the pleasure of the gift. “How do I look?”

“Handsome as always.”

They pass out the pie to some of the other members of the Club, and Jake wanders over with a slice, asks Olli how old he is, and gives Justin a very knowing _look_ once he gets his answer before taking his leave. “What was that about?” Olli asks, licking the last of the pie filling from his fork.

“Oh, I, uh, turned him down the other day. Told him he was too young for me.”

“Aren’t we the same age? Ah...hence the look. Wait, why _did_ you turn him down? I told you not to wait for me.”

“Cocky, assuming I did it just because I’m waiting for you,” Justin says, even though that’s exactly why he turned Jake down. “A man’s allowed to have preferences, you know, and maybe Jake’s just not my type. Besides, he looks more than happy with Brisbane over there.”

“Brisbane?” Olli twists in his seat to look at Jake, who is giggling with the bar owner, staring at the man like he’s hung the stars in the sky. “Uh, you know his name is _Sidney?”_

“Shit, wrong city in Australia,” Justin says, which pitches them both into fits of laughter.

“You’re ridiculous,” Olli giggles, and Justin thinks that’s probably true.

~~~~~

It’s apparent just a few months in that the Hornets will not be repeating their playoff appearance of the year before; they’ve lost too many good players, some of which have been called up to the Wings, others which have taken good jobs and quit hockey, and still others which have gone off to war. Justin almost wants to tell Olli - a regular at games, now - not to come watch them get blown out anymore, but then he loves having him at the rink. Due to their record the crowd has shrunk, so Olli usually can get a pretty good seat just a few rows up from the boards, hard to miss. Justin likes watching him while he’s on the bench, seeing Olli’s head turn this way and that with the action, and daydreaming about what he’d like to do to him after the game.

The Club has a little Halloween party that year, and even though costumes are usually only done by children, Kris has convinced them all that they simply _must_ dress up. Kris goes all out, dressing like a grotesque witch, the makeup good enough to make even him look hideous which is a feat in itself. Justin’s a little low on cash, so he just takes one of his extra white bed sheets and cuts out eyes to make himself into a ghost, which earns him a healthy eye roll from Kris. “It’s like you didn’t even try, Jeff,” he groans, as Justin shrugs out of the sheet, leaving him effectively costume-less. “I hope your sweetheart does better, when he gets here.”

“I’m here,” comes a quiet voice from next to them, and Justin looks over to find Olli blushing. “I mean - if it’s _me_ you’re talking about.”

“Who else?” Justin says, at the same time Kris laughs _fucking hell,_ because Olli’s costume, well - 

Justin is _pretty_ sure it’s meant to be a woman’s costume. Olli is a cat, wearing a fuzzy headpiece with ears, fluffy gloves that look like claws, a tail, and whiskers painted on his face. There’s a big elaborate bowtie with a black shirt and pants. It’s the most absurd thing Justin’s ever seen and he’s delighted, because Olli is almost always the picture of quiet propriety.

“That’s the queerest thing I’ve ever seen,” Kris tells him. “You didn’t walk here with that on, did you?”

Olli blushes, trying to adjust the ears, but having a hard time of it with the fuzzy cat gloves. “Just the black shirt and pants. Everything else I put on inside the Club. Do you really not like it?”

“Oh, I never said I didn’t like it.”

Justin steps up with a big grin, trying to adjust the slightly crooked bowtie, which keeps falling off-kilter no matter what he does. “I love it,” he says, and Olli blushes a little harder. “It’s a good look on you. Very handsome.”

Kris, from his place across the bar, snorts. “You got it bad if you really believe that,” he mutters, and walks away before either of them can order a drink.

Olli looks like he wants to respond to that, but instead his gaze falls on the bedsheet draped across Justin’s forearm. “I see you went all out.”

“I’m a _ghost,”_ Justin scoffs. “It’s keeping with the theme!”

“So are you going to put that back on, or what?”

“I mean, I _could,”_ Justin says, running his fingers up the side of the cat ears. “But then you couldn’t see my lovely face.”

Olli smirks. “Yeah, that’s not a problem.”

Justin gasps, drawing back as if he’s been wounded. “Well we also couldn’t kiss. How about _that_ one?”

“That could be a bit more of a problem,” Olli agrees. His painted-on whiskers flake a little when he smiles, and Justin wonders how bad they’ll smudge after he gets through kissing him.

~~~~~

It’s early November when Kris gets the letter. Brian’s coming home. His initial jubilation turns to a quiet worry, because the only time men come home from this war early is either in a coffin or on a hospital bed. And since he’s not dead, that means he’s injured; Kris scans the words again and again in the post, as if it will give up its secrets by re-reading it. “I don’t care if he comes home without a limb to his name,” Kris declares, “if it means he’s _alive.”_

“My cousin lost like two fingers and they sent him home,” Jake says. “So maybe it won’t be too bad.”

Brian, as they find out a bit over a month later, has lost more than two fingers.

The first thing Justin notices is the way he walks, not quite a limp, but a stiff gait, like his right leg is bothering him. Then up to Brian’s face, at the patch covering his right eye, a jagged scar cutting down his face like a lightning bolt. His shy smile at the applause the Club gives him when he first walks in is familiar, the same old Brian, and Justin thinks that while it’s not two fingers, Brian’s lucky with just an eye injury and a little soreness.

It’s not until he jumps up to shake Brian’s hand that he realizes it’s not there, cut off just above the wrist. And he learns it’s not just an eye injury; the eye itself is gone, lost to a landmine.

Justin quickly realizes it’s not the “same old” Brian anymore, either. There’s a solemnity that never existed before, and there are nights where the only one that can draw a thin, tenuous smile from him is Kris. “Of all the things that are awful about your buddy getting blown up in front of you, and taking your eye and your hand with it, you want to know the worst?” Brian asks Justin one night, about a week after he’s returned, drunk off his gourd. “The smell of it. I know that seems weird, right? But I can’t... _stop_ smelling it. It’s like it has been permanently seared into my nose. You could put a rose in front of me, and it would just smell like rose-scented death.”

“I’m sorry,” Justin says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Brian huffs, slinging back the rest of his beer with his good hand. “You want to buy me another?”

He shouldn’t, but he does, which draws what Justin thinks was meant to be a smile but is more like a grimace out of Brian, and leaves him alone.

Olli seems a little unsettled by Brian’s injury next time he comes to the Club, enough so that Justin has to ask about it. “Does that freak you out? The stump?”

They both watch from across the room as Brian - sitting at the bar with Kris - reaches for his beer with his dominant arm, which is unfortunately now hand-less. He bumps the glass with his wrist, nearly knocking it over, and the look of frustration on his face is unmistakable, still not used to the injury. Kris settles a hand on his hip, in defiance of all the rules about affection in the bar area, but nobody says a thing.

“No, it’s not the hand that concerns me,” Olli says, chewing on his lip. “He’s just...different. They say war changes you, and that’s easy enough to believe, but you don’t realize how true it is until you meet a man it’s affected.”

“At least he’s got Kris.”

“It’s always good to have somebody.” Olli makes a soft noise of consideration, then turns back to Justin. “Maybe I will come to New Year’s.”

Justin, for weeks, has been asking Olli to come to the New Year’s bash that the Club is throwing, and been turned down every time. “Really? What changed?”

“Life is...short,” Olli says, eyes straying back to Brian, as if he were the catalyst for the realization - and perhaps that’s true. “But I can’t come till late. I have - “

“Responsibilities,” Justin finishes for him. “I get it. I’m just excited you’ll be here.”

Olli smiles at him. “Me too.”

~~~~~

Olli rushes in at 11:47p on New Year’s Eve, which is enough time for a celebratory shot and to crowd in the downstairs basement with the rest of the Club as the minutes tick by. The place erupts at midnight with shouts of _happy new year!,_ and someone is throwing confetti, and others have noisemakers, clacking and buzzing and whistling, and amidst all the chaos Justin pulls Olli close and kisses him deep and slow. “Happy New Year, Olli,” he murmurs as they part, barely able to even hear himself over the din.

“Happy New Year,” Oll’s mouth says, voice carried off, and then Olli is kissing him again, tongue in his mouth and strong hands on his waist.

~~~~~

Justin’s never really had anyone to buy Valentine’s day gifts before, and he’s a little nervous about the card he picked. It’s got a kitten sitting inside a clog, and it says _“Wooden Shoe” Like To Be My Valentine?_ Justin laughed when he saw it, and thought about Olli’s Halloween costume and bought the thing, along with some penny licorice that he knows is Olli’s favorite, but now he thinks maybe it’s too forward. Justin’s been bringing the gifts every day for the past three days, because Olli still hasn’t been in since Valentine’s itself, but that’s pretty normal.

He’s halfway through a beer when Olli steps inside the Club to loud greetings, and he’s clutching some sort of letter in his hand, and Justin’s heart soars. Nowadays stock printed Valentine’s greetings are more common, but there are still some old-fashioned guys that hand write their letters. Leave it to Olli to be in that camp, but all that matters is Olli remembered, and Olli _got_ him something. That’s exciting enough.

“Hi,” Justin says as Olli slides onto the chair beside him, digging the gifts out of his pocket. The card is slightly rumpled from being there for a few days, _damn,_ but the licorice still looks perfect. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Olli’s got an odd expression on his face, not smiling, and it crumples when he looks down at the presents. “Shit,” he mutters, then again: “shit.”

“I take it what you’ve got there isn’t a Valentine for me? That’s okay.” He’s a little disappointed, if he wants to admit it to himself, but it really _is_ okay. Olli’s pragmatic, Justin knows that, and if Olli finds Valentine’s day silly, well that doesn’t surprise him much.

Olli takes a deep breath. “I forgot,” he says slowly, “because of this.” Then he slides the paper he’s clutching over to Justin.

It’s folded, so Justin can’t tell what it is at first, but as he straightens it out and reads the header in big bold words, he nearly drops it. Instead, the licorice clutched in his other hand bounces to the floor, forgotten.

**Order to Report for Induction**

“Oh God,” Justin mutters to himself, reading the letter frantically. _...you have been selected for training and service in the Navy...report to local board...bring with you sufficient clothing for three days…_

“American as apple pie, huh?”

“Fuck America,” Justin says, with such viciousness that it turns a few heads. “Fuck this war and fuck the draft and _fuck this_. This - this isn’t right, this isn’t _fair._ This country shits all over guys like us and now they want to send you to d - “ he chokes on the word, _die,_ because the idea is too terrible to comprehend. Justin feels like a ship unmoored, drifting through a bay as it springs a leak and takes on water. His anger shifts to panic, crawling hot and urgent up his spine.

“It’s okay,” Olli says, seemingly getting calmer the more that Justin gets riled up. “It’s the Navy, at least. It’s not the front lines with the Army or the Marines. I’ll be on a boat somewhere and I’ll probably never even see any action. I was, ah...hoping that maybe you had a photo of yourself? Something I could bring along with me.”

Justin _does_ have a photo, in his Red Wings uniform, staring at the camera with what he hoped at the time was an intimidating scowl. But if Olli wants to take a photo of Justin with him to the front, he doesn’t want to send that one along. “I don’t, but - but I can get one.” Justin reads the time and day to report; a little over a week away. He can go tomorrow to a studio after practice and have them rush develop the photo, and have it in three days’ time. “But it’ll take a few days.”

“I’ll be back,” Olli promises, and then a shadow falls over the pair. Brian is standing there, his wrist stump shoved in his pocket, his good hand playing fretfully with the hem of his shirt.

“I’m sorry to overhear,” he says. “Did you get drafted?”

Olli swallows, eyes darting to Justin, then back to Brian. “Yes,” he says softly.

“Do you...want to talk about it?”

Olli’s quiet for a moment, then nods. “Yes.”

“I’ll leave you alone,” Justin says, and he half-expects either one of them to politely insist that he can stay, but neither of them do. So Justin does leave, taking his beer and heading to the other side of the bar, listening to the Club’s greybeard, Matt, spin a story to a few of the younger guys as he watches Olli and Brian talk.

It’s a lengthy conversation, and at the end of it Olli stands and embraces Brian, who hugs him back with his good arm and then - after a long moment - lifts his other arm as well to curl around Olli. His missing hand is stark and still-shocking, the empty spot obvious against Olli’s shirt.

Justin averts his eyes as Olli heads his way, not wanting to give off the impression that he’d been staring at them. “Hey,” Olli says, gently bumping up against him. “Come on, come cheer me up. Let’s dance.”

There’s a hundred thousand questions rolling through Justin’s mind that he wants to ask, but Olli seems to recognize it, pressing a thumb quickly to Justin’s mouth. “I’ll be back to collect that photo,” he says. “We can talk more then. For tonight, I just want to forget.”

“I’m gonna need another beer then,” Justin says, chuckling without humor.

They end up with a double whiskey each, pressed close in the basement. The liquor slowly loosens them up until Justin can smile without it turning into a grimace, can dance without it feeling like there’s a knife in his back. The alcohol helps him _forget,_ even just momentarily, what Olli’s future holds, and that helps. Olli matches him drink for drink, shot for shot, and by the end of the night both of them are too drunk to go anywhere. Sidney sometimes allows men who get too drunk to stay in the Club - his own apartment is located on the second floor of the house, right above the bar - and Justin vaguely registers him transforming the basement couch into a pull-out bed. The music has stopped and the place is emptier than Justin’s ever seen it before, so it must be late.

“Don’t make this a habit,” Sidney chides gently, without any anger behind it, helping Justin down onto the bed. “Sleep it off.”

“Olli,” Justin mumbles drunkenly, casting about for the other man. “Wh’re - “

“I got ‘im,” a voice grumbles, and Justin turns to see Jake, practically dragging Olli behind him. Olli is not making it easy, leaning heavily on Jake, stumbling every few steps even with the help. His eyes are glassy but they light up when they see Justin.

“Justin,” Olli croons, happy and wasted, and Jake deposits him roughly on the bed, where he immediately curls up into Justin. Justin tilts his head up for a kiss, and when they break, he can see Sidney and Jake doing the same thing, soft and affectionate.

“We’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” Sidney tells them.

“Yeah, but maybe don’t come upstairs in the next, mmm, 45 minutes or so,” Jake says with a grin at Sidney, whose eyebrows shoot up.

“That so?”

“Oh my God,” Justin flops back on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut. “Go fuck, we won’t bug you. Just shaddap.”

He can hear the pair laugh, and then a minute later a door shutting, and then he and Olli are together, alone. Justin manages to wrench his eyes open and there’s Olli in his arms, already asleep, mouth half-open. Even like this, passed out hammered, he’s beautiful, and Justin takes the opportunity to gently push the blonde hair out of his face, curl a lock around his finger.

“I love you,” he tells Olli, even though he knows it won’t be heard.

~~~~~

Olli’s gone the next day when he wakes up. Justin stumbles up the stairs, rubbing his eyes, and the Club looks so different in the daytime without any patrons. “Shit,” he mutters as he catches sight of the clock; he’s going to miss practice, and he’ll catch hell for it.

“Hey, you awake?” Jake calls from the second floor, down a staircase that Justin’s never seen before, behind the bar. “Come up.”

Justin ducks behind the bar, ignoring the feeling that he’s going somewhere he shouldn’t, and heads up the creaky stairs. He arrives in a small loft, not much bigger than Justin’s matchbox apartment, with a tiny kitchen and a bathroom off to the side. It’s set up like a studio, with the bedroom and the living area in the same spot. Sidney and Jake are in their pajamas, and Sid’s at the stove, poking at some eggs.

“Here,” Jake says, pouring Justin a cup of black coffee in a chipped mug and handing it over. He takes it gratefully, the first sip almost burning his tongue.

“Just eggs and potatoes and bread,” Sidney tells him. “I couldn’t buy meat this week. Sorry.”

“I didn’t expect you to cook for me at all,” Justin scoffs. “So don’t apologize for anything. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.”

Jake indicates a spot at the table, and he takes a seat while he waits for the food, glancing around. Justin knows that Jake hasn’t been in Pittsburgh too long, perhaps six months now, but he seems intertwined in every facet of Sid’s life already. Jake moves around the kitchen like he knows where everything is, and he and Sid maneuver around each other effortlessly, comfortably. His pajamas fit him perfectly, which means Jake has his clothes here, and he’s not just wearing one of Sid’s. They’re _domestic._ Justin’s heart aches for it. “Where did Olli go?” he asks cautiously.

“Gone when we woke up,” Jake says, fetching some plates, which Sid loads food onto. “You were still pretty out.”

“Long night,” Justin says, and as if mocking him, the dull headache that’s lancing through his skull intensifies a bit. He takes another sip of coffee as a plate of food is set in front of him; it smells amazing.

The three of them eat silently for a long while, and Justin is just mopping up the last bits of yolk with toast when Sidney breaks the silence. “I don’t want to dissuade you from anything,” he says quietly, “but if you’re looking for something longer term, I’m not sure you’ll get it with Olli. He’s a lovely man, he truly is, but...he’s not available. And I’m not sure he ever will be.”

Justin stares at his plate, shifting the remnants of the yolk around with his fork tines. Sid’s right, he knows it, but his mind rebels, and he has to bite back a caustic comment. “Do you know why? I mean, why he’s unavailable. He’s never told me. Just says he has...responsibilities.”

“We know as much as you, unfortunately.”

Jake sets down his fork with a clatter. “We just think you deserve to be happy. There’s this new guy that’s come around once or twice now - Erik? He just moved here, should be coming around more often once he closes on his house. He’s handsome as hell and seems awful nice. I can introduce you.”

“No,” Justin snaps, then softens at Jake’s hurt look. “Maybe. Look, I don’t even want to think about anyone else until Olli’s...deployed.” The word _deployed_ sticks in his throat, and he takes another sip of coffee to shake loose the lump.

Jake opens his mouth to respond, but Sid sets his hand atop Jake’s, quieting him. “Just tell us when you’re ready,” he says. “No rush.”

“Thanks.” Justin nods, pushing his chair back and standing up, plucking at his rumpled tie and shirt. He needs to go home, and wash up, and get a fresh shave and some new clothes before he takes any sort of pictures. If Olli’s going to carry around a photo of him, it’ll be the best damned photo he’s ever taken. “I should head out now.”

“Of course.” Sid smiles at him, and Justin wants to be mad, wants to be _furious_ at the way his hand is still resting intimately on Jake’s, but - he can’t be. He can’t be angry at these two for having exactly what he wants. “See you tonight?”

Olli won’t be at the Club tonight, Justin knows, and he probably should stay home and get some sleep, make sure he’s well-rested for tomorrow’s practice, because it’s going to suck. Instead, he says, “okay,” because the idea of spending the entire evening alone is loathsome, and because Sid and Jake are watching him with such fondness he can’t refuse.

“I’ll buy you a beer,” Jake tells him, and Justin chuckles.

“Buy me a whiskey, and you’re on.”

~~~~~

Justin scrubs up better than he thinks he ever has before in his life, puts on his best suit, then heads to the barber and gets a haircut and a shave.

He’s not sure what the pictures are going to look like, but when the photographer tells him to _smile_ he just thinks about Olli and that’s easy enough, the grin splits his face. The photographer takes a few pictures of Justin sitting, a few of him standing, a couple different poses at Justin’s insistence. “They have to be perfect,” he tells the man with the camera. “It’s for somebody very special.”

“Leaving a picture with your sweetheart before you go to war?” the man asks, and - well it’s not exactly accurate, but it’s close enough. He takes his job seriously after that, and assures Justin they’re going to be fantastic. “When do you ship out?”

_Olli_ ships out in a little over a week, and Justin tells him so, pretending it’s his deployment. The photographer promises a three-day turnaround time with a large selection of different-sized photos (“for her purse, or on the mantle!”) and then turns Justin loose.

He ends up back at the Club that night. There’s no Olli, which is expected but still depressing, so he drinks himself silly, stopping barely in time to get himself home; he doesn’t want to depend on Sidney’s kindness again to put him up.

It’s a rough night though, and even rougher morning. He gets it bad from the Hornets coach about missing practice, and feels like he skates out all the alcohol from the past two nights with the bag skate he gets.

There’s no Olli in the Club again that evening, so he decides to have a repeat, doing shots of whiskey until he can barely remember his own name and somehow finding his way back home.

The third night, before he can even order a beer, Sid sidles onto the bar stool next to him. “Justin,” he says, and that gets his attention, because only Olli calls him _Justin;_ everyone else uses the ‘Jeff’ nickname. “As happy as I am to take your money, I’m not going to sit here and let you drink yourself to death.”

Justin scoffs, flapping his hand at Sid. “It’s just been a rough week, is all.”

“It has, you’re right. One that we’re going to help you get through, but not by getting shit-faced every night.”

“What about Brian?” Justin lowers his voice so he’s not overheard. “He came back without a hand and lost himself in alcohol. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t do shit.”

Sid shifts uncomfortably on the stool, glancing behind him, where Brian is sitting with a glass of vodka. “Well, that’s sort of why I wanted to nip this in the bud before it went any further. I know we’ve failed him. We’re trying to sort it out now.”

“This fucking country failed him,” Justin says. “Just like it failed you, and me, and it’s going to fail Olli. But if you really wanted to help, you wouldn’t be letting him sit there with that glass of vodka.”

“It’s _water.”_

“...what?”

“Soda water and about half a jigger of vodka. He’s weaning down slowly, okay? But this isn’t about Brian. It’s about you. I don’t want to be having this conversation in six months when it’s that much harder,” Sidney says.

“You’re an awful weird business owner for trying to dissuade customers away from your products.”

“Some things are more important than profits.” Sid waves at Geno, who slides a beer at him, and Sid sets it carefully in front of Justin. “On the house. But it’s all you’re getting tonight. Then come see me, we’ll go downstairs and dance a tune or two.”

“Won’t Jake get jealous?”

Sid chuckles, glancing over at Jake, who’s talking animatedly with a couple other patrons. “It’s a _dance,_ not sex. Friends dance.”

“And you’re my friend?”

“Of course I am,” Sid says firmly, standing back up. “We all are.”

“Except me,” Kris calls from across the bar with a smirk. “Fuck you, Jeff.”

Despite himself, Justin bursts into laughter. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too, Kris.”

Kris beams, and Justin thinks maybe he even sees something like fondness there.

~~~~~

The photographer was right. The pictures _are_ good, something he’s proud to send along with Olli. Justin’s been at the Club every night since he got them - drinking in moderation under Sidney’s watchful eye - and he gets a little more nervous each evening. What if Olli had to deploy early? What if those _responsibilities_ of his won’t let him return, and Justin will never see him again?

Two nights before he’s set to report, he walks through the door, and Justin can’t help but slump over in relief. If they only get one last night - here, now - he’s going to make it worth it.

“You’re here,” Olli says, smiling.

“Of course I’m here. Where else would I be? Look, look - “ Justin nearly fumbles the photos out of the folder he’s got them in, keeping them smooth and uncreased, and hands a few of his favorites over to Olli, watches his face light up as he slowly flips through them.

“You look so _handsome,”_ Olli gushes. “Wow. Didn’t know you could clean up this good.”

“For someone special I can,” Justin says, and Olli meets his eye and they grin at each other, big and wide and fond, before they both remember the occasion and the joy fades a little.

“This means a lot to me,” Olli whispers, patting the folder. “May I have them all?”

“Of course.” Justin swallows thickly, trying to cram down the lump forming in his throat. “I always thought that you were supposed to carry a picture of your sweetheart with you when you went to war.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Olli says, and Justin chokes, biting down on the meat of his palm to stop the threatening tears.

“Come home with me, Olli. Look, I know - I know you’ve always refused, and I still don’t understand _why_ , but this might be the only chance we get. Come home with me for just one night. I want to...god, the things I want to do to you.”

Olli takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and blowing it out between his teeth. “I’m engaged.”

“You - you’re what?”

“Engaged.” Olli opens his eyes, stares steadily at Justin. “To a woman. Irja. She’s Finnish, like me. It was sort of set up by our parents.”

Justin’s jaw drops. “Like an arranged marriage sort of thing?”

“Not exactly. They just thought it would be a good fit, and it was... _encouraged.”_ Olli chews on his mouth for a moment. “She’s a good woman. Pretty and young. But I always knew there was something wrong with me, something different, because I never felt anything for her but friendship. I never even should have come here with my engagement, but...I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’d hoped to come once and sate my curiosity, and never have to think of it again, and spend my life with Irja. But...”

There’s a long beat of silence, so Justin prompts him. “But?”

“But then there was you...and it didn’t quite work out the way I’d planned.”

“You’re not married yet.” Justin slides his hands into Olli’s, twines their fingers together. “You could call it off - “

“No.” Olli shakes his head. “I gave her my word. Gave her parents and my parents my word, too. So I will make her happy, even if I’m not happy myself.”

“Well, I love you. No, no, wait.” Olli’s tried to sink his chin in embarrassment, and Justin pulls it right back up to keep their eyes locked. “Look at me, Olli. I _love_ you. And I know nothing I can say will change your mind about your engagement. But you’re going to war, and you might never come back. Before you either die in the trenches or a loveless marriage, give me just one night. One night for _us._ And if you never want to see me again after that...well, okay.”

Justin can hear Olli’s breath go shaky, can feel his hand tremble gently. “Where would we go?”

“Back to my place. It’s not much to look at, but...if you’ll be there, there’s no place else I’d rather be.”

Olli ducks his head again, and Justin lets him this time while he thinks. “Okay,” he finally says softly. “One night. One night for us.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s tough to keep his hands to himself on the way back to his place. Normally, Justin walks - it’s a bit under thirty minutes from the Club to his little apartment - but tonight he can’t wait, shells out for a cab. He sits in the backseat with his hands folded in his lap to stop them from reaching out and doing something that would get them both arrested.

As soon as the door to his place closes, though, Olli crowds close and Justin lets him, mouths and hands all over each other. They’ve spent a number of nights making out in the dim little Club basement, so Justin knows Olli’s mouth intimately by this point, but he still can’t get enough of it. Normally he doesn’t allow himself to get too riled up, knowing there’s nothing but his hand waiting at the end of the night, so there’s a desperation to their kisses that is new.

Justin forces himself to slow down, half afraid he’s going to pop off in his pants like a teenager. He smooths his hands down Olli’s body, thrilling in the fact that he’s going to be able to finally touch without these clothes in the way. “I’d like to undress you,” Justin murmurs against his mouth, and his voice cracks embarrassingly so he clears his throat. “Please.”

“You first,” Olli whispers.

“Maybe we can go to the bedroom?” Justin asks, because they’re still in his kitchen, and Olli giggles nervously, runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up every which way and Justin can’t resist reaching out to pet it down before grabbing his hand and tugging him to follow. He guides Olli into his bedroom, to his bed - which is made up and clean, with a few extra pillows he’s placed by the headboard this morning _just in case_ \- and gently sits him down.

Olli’s nervous, clutching at the bedspread and twisting it under his palms. “Hey, it’s okay. Just keep your eyes on me,” Justin tells him, loosening the knot on his tie. “I’m going to get naked now, if that’s alright?”

“Please,” Olli blurts out, then blushes. “I mean - yes.”

There’s a warm glow radiating down Justin’s spine and throughout his limbs - yes, Olli’s nervous, but he wants this, wants _Justin_ , seemingly just as bad as Justin wants him. He takes his time with undressing, not because he isn’t eager, but he wants to give Olli a little time to settle down. He hangs up his tie, and next comes his dress and undershirt; then shoes, socks, pants. Finally he’s left in his undershorts, the hard line of his dick blatant underneath it, and Olli’s gaze is drawn there, eyes wide. “Okay?” Justin asks, toying at the hem.

“Yes,” Olli whispers, fidgeting, and Justin can see his own slacks with a telltale bulge there.

Olli draws in a sharp breath as Justin pushes down his undershorts, cock springing free and bobbing heavy in front of him. This might be the first time he’s seen another man’s hard dick, Justin realizes, so he palms it in his hands, tries to make it look a little less intimidating. “We don’t do anything until you’re - “

“I want to suck you,” Olli interrupts, and despite all his nervous tics his voice is calm and clear. “Please.”

A soft groan escapes Justin before he can bite it back, _god yes,_ what he’s been waiting and dreaming for. He steps towards Olli, who’s still sitting on the bed, and while Olli takes a moment to stare at the dick in his face, up close and personal for the first time ever, Justin runs a hand through his hair. “Before you start, do you want anything more than this?”

“More?” Olli looks up at him through his long, pretty lashes, and the sight of Olli’s sweet face right next to his hard cock nearly takes his breath away.

“More. Like...like sex. You know how men have sex, Olli?”

“I’m not that naive,” Olli says, but Justin’s not really so sure. He waits, lets the myriad of emotions play out on Olli’s face - lust and fear and just a touch of confusion. “You’re talking about sodomy, right? So one man would act the woman.”

“That’s right. Is that what you want? Your choice, Olli, what part you’d like to take. Man or woman.” Justin runs his thumb along the short hair by Olli’s ears; he doesn’t normally bottom, but for Olli, he’ll do anything. Hell, he’ll _beg_ to bend over for Olli, let him press Justin to the mattress, fuck him so deep and hard he can barely practice tomorrow. Whatever Olli wants to give, he’ll take greedily. But he needs to know, because if Olli’s going to let Justin fuck him, he’s going to stop this blowjob well before he gets past the point of no return.

“I guess if I’m only doing this once…” Olli lets out a shaky breath, grins up at Justin. “I’ll play the man’s part all my life. Tonight, for you, I’ll do the opposite.”

“I’m going to make you feel so good. I _promise,”_ Justin tells him, cupping his face, and he thinks maybe it’s the most sincere thing he’s ever said. He can feel Olli’s face crinkle under his palm as he smiles, and then his head is turning down to look at - 

Oh, right. _Somehow_ he’d almost forgotten his dick, waving hard right in front of Olli’s face. Justin lets his hands drop away, and then Olli’s long fingers are wrapping around his cock - touching him, god, _finally_ \- squeezing, holding, stroking experimentally. “I don’t know if I’m going to be any good at this,” Olli murmurs, and then he opens his mouth and closes it around the tip, warm and wet and the best thing Justin’s ever felt.

“It’s good, it’s good,” Justin says, sifting Olli’s blonde locks through his fingers until they’re uncontrollably mussed. Olli’s slow but attentive; every time Justin groans, he does the same thing he’s just done, sometimes stroking his tongue along the head, sometimes sucking hard. Somehow, in the span of just a few minutes, Olli seems to have learned every way to take Justin apart. There’s an urgent curling in his gut that’s separate from his quickly approaching orgasm, an itch that’s only going to be scratched by making love to Olli. He presses his thumb to Olli’s jaw, drops open his mouth so he can pull his cock out, still dripping with Olli’s saliva.

“Was it okay?” Olli asks, pale and flushed, voice with a strange husky tone that Justin’s never heard before.

“You’re amazing, and I love you,” Justin says, bending down to clutch Olli’s face and pull him into a kiss. Olli goes pliant, letting himself be kissed, and then allowing Justin to gently topple him backwards onto the bed and start undressing him.

It feels like he’s unwrapping the best gift he’s ever gotten. His hands tremble just slightly as he unties Olli’s shoes - shiny black loafers, freshly polished - and then unclips his sock garters. Pulling them down and off, Justin wonders if this is how newly married men feel when they pull the garter off their new wives, the promise that someone is _theirs,_ knowing what’s to come.

Justin gently drapes Olli’s clothes over the single chair in his room as they come off - he doesn’t seem the type to appreciate his clothes being ripped off and strewn about - but surprisingly, by the time Olli is down to his undergarments, he’s squirming. “Hurry,” he says breathlessly, and there’s a little more accent in his voice now. The fabric does nothing to hide his excitement, curving up and out with his dick, so Justin obliges and yanks it off, the undershirt following, both going on the floor.

Then he just takes a moment to _look._ Olli is a little soft in the middle, but his chest is well-defined, heaving up and down with his breath. His cock curls up, uncut and leaking, from a riot of blonde curls. He’s beautiful, and Justin can’t help but sink to his knees on the floor and mouth wetly at the head. Maybe he should ask for permission, or at least tell Olli what he’s about to do so as not to spook him, but he’s too far gone for any of that.

Olli gasps out something he doesn’t understand - Finnish, probably - he tastes clean, like soap and perhaps a hint of sweat. Justin splays his fingers along that soft belly, the other hand contrasted on the sharp cut of his hip and then he _sucks,_ and Olli makes a noise that is going to be imprinted in his brain forever. “Justin, Justin,” he whimpers, and - yeah, that too.

Justin gets lost in it, the way Olli fills his mouth, the heavy weight on his tongue, and he doesn’t mean for it to happen but soon enough Olli’s bucking up, coming in gushes, salty and bitter. Justin’s never swallowed before but for Olli he does, tastes him all the way down his throat. Olli is left boneless and blissed out, and for a moment Justin is afraid he’s finished, isn’t going to want sex anymore.

But then Olli lifts his head, blinks heavy-lidded eyes at him with a soft smile. “Were you still going to make love to me?” he asks.

“If you’ll let me,” Justin says, and Olli spreads his legs in response. There’s Vaseline on his tiny end table, so he grabs it, rolls the stuff between his fingers. “I’ll put my fingers there first,” he explains. “One, then two, then three.”

_“Three,”_ Olli murmurs, sounding nervous again now. “Three. That’s a lot. But then again I guess your dick is a lot too, isn’t it?”

“It is, but you can take it,” Justin says, petting down Olli’s flank with one hand, the other pressing between his thighs. He doesn’t push his finger in, not at first, just swipes his fingers around and around the rim, letting Olli get used to the sensation of something down there. It’s not until he feels the muscle relax that he gives a soft warning and pushes inside, slowly, so slowly.

Olli intakes a sharp breath, and he reaches down to grab Justin’s free hand, tangling their fingers together. “I’m good,” he reassures Justin, but he doesn’t let go of his hand, so that’s how Justin fingers him open - one-handed, the other clutched in Olli’s. It’s slow going, but Justin relishes every noise pulled from him, every open-mouthed face that he makes.

His entire hand is slippery, up to his wrist, when he gets three fingers inside Olli, wiggles them around to find that spot inside that makes men scream and Olli nearly bucks off the bed when he finds it. “Justin,” Olli yelps, grinding down, trying to chase the sensation of Justin’s fingers swallowed up inside him. “Please, please.”

He keeps hold of Olli’s hand as he slicks himself with the remnants of the Vaseline on his palm, and as he presses against his entrance. “Please,” Olli says again.

Olli’s so wet and open that Justin slides right in to the hilt, easy and slick, and he has to take a moment to stop and compose himself. “God, _Olli,”_ he huffs. “You’re so good for me. I love you so much.”

“I love you,” Olli says, the first time - and Justin thinks maybe the only time - he’ll ever say it. He gently folds Olli in half so they can kiss as Justin thrusts, slow and steady, pausing his kisses only to whisper how wonderful Olli is, how sweet he takes it, how much Justin loves him, forever and ever. He swallows Olli’s noises in his mouth; he doesn’t want his neighbors hearing. Olli’s whimpers and whines are for him only.

“I’m close,” he whispers against Olli’s mouth, that insatiable itch that’s been growing for an hour - no, over a _year_ , the whole time he’s known Olli - building further and further. He tries to hold it off, because he never wants to stop, wants to keep himself buried inside Olli forever, but it’s impossible.

“Me too,” Olli says back, and even though he came in Justin’s mouth earlier, he’s hard again, and that’s thrilling. He tries to sink his last few deep thrusts right against the spot that made Olli scream earlier, and scream he does, Justin kissing away the noise as he finishes, the pleasure buzzing deep in his skin and radiating through his limbs. Olli shakes and trembles and he’s coming too, flecking Justin’s belly with white.

He lets himself luxuriate for a long moment, kissing Olli slow and sweet as their bodies cool down, and when he pulls away Olli’s eyes are rimmed in red, lashes wet. “What’s wrong?” Justin asks, and Olli bites his lip.

“I don’t want to go,” he says. “I don’t want to go, and I don’t want to come back here to someone that’s not you.”

Justin slides his thumb along the tears gathering at the corner of Olli’s eyes. “Promise me that when you return - and goddamnit, you _will_ return - that you come see me. One last time. I have to know that you’re safe. And you can make a decision then, alright? Just know that I love you, and I will always love you, and I’ll be right here for you when you come back, even if it’s the last you see of me.”

Olli scrubs at his eyes and nods. “I should go.”

“Stay,” Justin blurts out. “I know...I know it isn’t proper. I know... _she_...will be waiting for you. But just once. Just once, for us. Please.”

“I shouldn’t,” Olli says, but he nods anyway. “Just once.”

Justin pulls out and cleans them carefully, gently, wiping down the sweat and Vaseline and come from both of them, but not bothering with pajamas or undergarments. The bed is small, a twin, and it’s a tight fit with two grown men, but Olli snuggles close in his arms, their limbs twisted together. Justin sets his nose against Olli’s neck and breathes him in, over and over again. “I love you,” he says as they’re drifting off, not expecting a response back.

“I love you,” Olli says, so softly that Justin almost thinks he’s hearing things, but. He’ll take it.

~~~~~

Olli leaves before Justin wakes in the morning, and the pictures are gone too. His deployment date comes and goes and he doesn’t return to the Club, and Justin has to face the grim reality that Olli is gone, his life in the hands of fate now.

The boys at the Club don’t let him mope too long or too hard. When the days get particularly bad, there’s always _someone_ there to offer a dance or buy him a beer or challenge him to a game of darts. It’s someone different every time, like they’re on some kind of rotating schedule, and Justin thinks that Sidney probably has a lot to do with that.

He does get letters from Olli, quite a few at first while he’s in training at boot camp. They have to be careful what they say; someone is always monitoring letters, so Justin can’t write frilly love notes like he wants to. But they manage anyway, writing sweet things in a code only they understand, and Justin reads the letters over and over, until they’re dog-eared and creased.

Olli ends up training as a radioman, and shortly after boot camp the letter comes. He’s been assigned to a submarine in the Pacific. It’s dangerous work, and Olli’s blunt about it.

_They say you get no more than four patrols before the odds catch up with you. So after four, you can transfer off somewhere else. God willing I’ll make it to transfer._

And then, further down: _You said you’re getting along well with that new dame Erika? You should go for it. I want you to._

_Erika_ isn’t really a dame. His name is Erik, and he’s new in town, moved to Pittsburgh for work. Erik is tall, a good three inches on Justin, dark hair and intense dark eyes and if Justin’s being honest with himself, extremely handsome. Way out of his league for sure, but Erik takes a liking to him, and they end up as good friends.

The letters slow to a trickle, and every time he gets one Olli says that he’d better have made a move by now.

He ignores that request, doesn’t make any move until one night about one year after Olli’s been gone, he ends up drunk and terribly lonely. Erik lets him cry on his shoulder, and then Erik takes him back to his house and sucks his dick, slow and sweet and good and just what he needed. Justin returns the favor, and from that point on they’re...a thing. Not a couple, he refuses to call them a couple, because regardless of Olli’s encouragement to find someone else, Olli’s still out there _alive,_ and Justin can’t help but hope. But having someone to hold, to kiss him and distract him on his worst nights, is good for Justin. Olli thinks so too, so he says in his letters in a roundabout way.

Olli makes it through four patrols and Justin gets the letter, clutches it to his chest, prays to a god he never believed in as a thank-you that Olli’s survived. But then he reads further:

_They’re sending me up with the Soviets since I speak Finnish. I can’t really say more than that - it’s pretty heavily classified. You may not get another letter from me until war’s end, but it sounds like the job is a lot safer than submarining._

_Tell Ma:_

_I miss you, every day, and thinking about you keeps me going._

_All my best._

Justin knows the ‘tell Ma’ part is just a distraction, that Olli’s message underneath is to him, and he adds it to the stack of letters that he cannot bear to throw away.

The letters stop, just like Olli said they might, and Justin thinks often about what it means. Maybe the government has seen how good and smart Olli is, and they’re putting him to good use, keeping him safe but in a place where it’s too classified to send letters. Maybe he’s just so busy he can’t send them. Maybe the post isn’t properly getting through.

Maybe Olli doesn’t write back because he decided he doesn’t want to see Justin anymore.

Maybe Olli _died._

Justin keeps sending letters, and they don’t come back returned, but he doesn’t get any responses either.

~~~~~

The war is going well - at least as well as war can be expected to go.

By the time January 1945 rolls around, Justin is pretty sure it’s only a matter of time before it’s over. There’s a counteroffensive winding down in Ardennes, and the newspaper says that Germany doesn’t have many troops left to keep fighting, and Italy is teetering on the brink already. Japan is another story, but once Germany surrenders, their defeat is inevitable.

That means Justin is probably going to be out of a job next season; soldiers will return, and the 45-46 season will be played by men who actually have two fully functioning knees. He’ll miss it, even if he’s had to maintain two jobs to get by.

Admittedly, it would probably be easier if he didn’t have a beer or two at the Club most nights. Sometimes he jokes to Sidney about putting food in his mouth with all the money he pays, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He ends up back at Erik’s place one evening, where they make out on the couch listening to soft music on the radio, and then Justin ends up on his knees with Erik’s cock in his mouth, spitting in the garbage can after he comes. Erik pets his hair for a long moment, eyes half-closed in contentment, and Justin thinks he’s going to fall asleep right here.

Instead, he asks, “What do you think about making this more official?”

“Hmm?” Justin lifts his head to look Erik in the eye, who looks a little more awake now. “Official? What do you mean?”

“I mean...like, us. Like you know what Jake and Sidney have? Like that.”

Jake and Sidney are still living together in that tiny apartment above the Club. There’s talk that they’re going to hold a little ceremony soon, a wedding - nothing official or real, because that’s against the law - and Justin thought it was a joke at first, because sometimes for Halloween or Christmas someone will come in dressed in drag and put on a bawdy show. It was only after he made a joke about Jake in a wedding dress that he found out they were serious, that even if the law wouldn’t recognize them, they wanted to be official in the eyes of the only family that would accept them.

Justin thinks about the war’s approaching end, thinks about how he hasn’t heard from Olli in months, thinks back to Olli’s insistence that he was going to marry his fiancee and make her happy and not continue their tryst. He and Erik are good together. Erik’s kind, and funny, and handsome, and he happily lets Justin fuck him even though he’d never really bottomed before they got together.

So it doesn’t make any sense when Justin says, “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

Erik’s face screws up into something tight and frustrated. “You’re waiting for Olli,” he says, and it’s not a question.

“No.”

“You are,” Erik says. “Look, I’ve never even met Olli but I feel like I know him, you talk about him so much. You’re not over him. And - ...and that’s okay, but not for me. I just want a little more. So I’m sorry, but I think I’m going to start dating other guys.”

Justin frowns. “Were we dating?”

Erik goes silent, mouth turning down. Then, quietly, he says: “I’d like you to leave now.”

Justin probably deserves that. He goes without a fuss.

~~~~~

Erik forgives him quickly, because that’s the kind of guy he is, and anyone can see he’s a real catch. Except Justin, apparently, who is forced to admit that Erik was right. As stupid as it is, he _is_ waiting for Olli, not willing to let him go until he’s 100% sure that Olli isn’t willing to see him again. It’s stupid, but that’s how he feels.

By the time late April rolls around, Erik ends up with both Brian _and_ Kris in a little triad. “That’s illegal, you know,” Justin teases them one night. “That’s polygamy.”

Brian snorts. “You know when it was just me and Kris it was illegal too, right?”

“It’s better with three,” Kris insists. “See, two men living together, that’s suspicious. Three men? We’re just boarders, living in the same household. Nobody suspects that. Times are tough, you know, gotta share living space. Don’t be jealous because you’re a fucking chucklehead that let Erik go. Your loss, our gain.”

“Why do you think I got this?” Brian holds up his injured arm, a brand new prosthetic peeking out from his sleeve, grinning. “Now I can jerk them both off at the same time.”

Justin bursts into laughter, and Brian follows; he doesn’t miss Kris’ fond smile. Brian laughs more and more as time goes by, and Kris seems thrilled by it.

There’s suddenly a ruckus, and Justin glances over at the door where people are crowding around someone. “What’s going on?” Justin asks.

Muzz is sitting a few feet away, a little closer to the door, and he turns excitedly to the group. “They’re saying Hitler offed himself,” he says. “Not sure how true it is, but I know the troops were getting closer. It makes sense.”

“That means the war could be over soon,” Brian says quietly, all mirth flown from his expression. “Well, the Nazis at least. Japs are still fighting. ...have you heard from Olli lately?”

Justin shakes his head, _no,_ feeling as grim as Brian looks. Brian shuts his eyes tight, takes a deep breath. “I pray for him every day,” he says, softly. “Every day.”

“You wanna go home?” Kris murmurs in his ear, and Brian nods. They excuse themselves and Justin is left alone, listening to the latest rumors.

If the war is ending, that either means Olli is coming home, or - 

He has to deal with the fact that Olli is _never_ coming home.

Justin hopes that if there is a God, he listened well to Brian’s prayers.

~~~~~

Total and unconditional surrender for Germany is signed, taking effect on May 8th. The end of May comes and still no Olli, but that’s not a surprise. The demobilization process is going to take awhile.

June comes and goes and now Justin catches men watching him sometimes, looking sad on his behalf. He hates it. The Hornets have already given him his walking papers and informed him that his services won’t be needed next year, so he signs full-time onto his second job. His friend Taylor keeps telling him to come to New York, still, hasn’t given it up. But not even half the men have been demobbed back to the States yet and almost nobody in the Navy has returned, so Justin thinks everyone is being a little too goddamn premature to declare Olli dead or missing.

Independence Day comes and the Club celebrates. Justin doesn’t know why they bother; he meant what he said before, that the US sends men like them to die but would arrest them in a heartbeat just for loving someone. “Fuck this country,” he says to anyone who will listen, getting so drunk that he wakes up on the basement couch for the first time since right before Olli deployed.

He almost stays home on July 5th, because his headache has been chasing him all day and he still feels slightly queasy. He ends up in a corner chair, eyes closed, head tilted back to the ceiling, listening to the gentle chirps of his friends as they tease him about being a lightweight.

Suddenly, the noise stops. “Holy _fuck,”_ he hears Kris bark in the quiet, and Justin cracks his eyes open to take a peek.

The first thing Justin notices is it seems like everyone has deliberately moved out of the way to give him line-of-sight to what’s going on. The second thing he notices is the uniform; Navy, and that’s a surprise, because a lot of the sailors are still in the Pacific fighting the Japanese. His eyes flick up to the sailor’s white cap, then back down to his face - 

“Olli,” he breathes, headache suddenly gone, shooting to his feet. _“Olli,”_ he cries, and then Olli’s moving fast, crashing into his arms, and Justin is knocking off his cap and kissing him, in blatant violation of the Club rules.

They let it go for a long moment, until Sidney clears his throat, and Justin takes a sheepish step back. He glances over and sees the Club patrons making a wall in front of the windows, guarding them from view. Nobody looks as upset as they have a right to be, because this behavior could get them all shut down and arrested. The Club is deliberately set in an emptier part of town, and there are curtains, but in the summer the windows are open to the breeze, and you just never know.

“Sorry,” Olli says, keeping his eyes glued to Justin, and that voice - god, Justin has missed that voice.

“Take it downstairs you two,” Sid tells them, then smiles. “Welcome back, Olli. You’ll have to tell us everything, but I get the feeling Justin’s going to keep you occupied for awhile.”

Everyone gives them space, even as they reach out to pat Olli on the shoulders as they head downstairs, and they end up in their old corner, in the chair that was always theirs. Justin gets the chance to really study his face; he looks a little older, worry lines creasing his forehead, his round baby face a little more gaunt now. But he’s _alive,_ and - as he verifies by patting down Olli - with all limbs intact.

“I’m here, I’m good,” Olli murmurs as Justin touches him, everywhere, like he has to convince himself it’s true. “I’m safe.”

“You came back,” Justin says, still stunned. “You came back to me. I didn’t hear from you, and I - I didn’t know.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry. We weren’t able to send or receive letters where I was. I missed them terribly, believe me. I still can’t say much about it, but...I got to go back to Finland. See it again.”

“You were a _spy,”_ Justin whispers, and Olli holds up two fingers to his mouth. _Shh._

“I thought I missed it, you know? Finland, I mean. Every couple months living here in America, I’d get homesick. But then when I went back...it changed. Or I did. Because I couldn’t wait to come home, my _real_ home. Right here.”

“Right here,” Justin agrees, grabbing Olli’s hand and holding it to his heart. “Even if you tell me it will only be for tonight, you’ll always be right here, Olli.”

“About that,” Olli says, and Justin’s stomach twists, his breath going shallow. Here it is - here’s where Olli follows through on his word, to live his life with his fiancee. To make her _happy._ Olli stays true to his word, Justin knows, he’s always known even if he couldn’t help but hold on to that small sliver of hope. “Here.” Olli holds out a letter, and Justin frowns, gingerly taking it and unfolding it.

It’s a letter from Olli’s fiancee, he sees, as he skims the words. It is short, and to the point: she has found someone else, and she wishes him all the best.

_You know what you want,_ she writes at the bottom, _and it’s not me._

“Olli,” he says, swallowing hard. “Does this mean what I think it does?”

“What do you think it means?”

“She’s broken up with you,” Justin says, searching his face. “Which leaves you free to pursue others.”

Olli smiles, wide and pleased. “That’s what it means. So, Justin, what do you think I should do now?”

He laughs suddenly, the absurdity of it all striking him; he’d been so bitter and angry about the war taking Olli away from him, but now he sees it’s done the opposite. The war has given Olli to him in a way that never could have happened otherwise. “You have a second chance,” he says. “You lived through the war, and now you have a chance to live here at home, too. With _me.”_

Olli stares at his hand pressed against Justin’s heart, then back up to meet his eyes. “Where do we start?”

“Come home with me tonight. One night for us. And...we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

“What tomorrow brings,” Olli echoes, nodding. “But you’re wrong, you know.”

“About what?”

“It’s not one night for us,” Olli says, leaning down next to his mouth. “It’s _every_ night now.”

Olli kisses him, sweet and slow, and for the first time in a long time, Justin can’t wait until tomorrow.


End file.
